


You can't predict the future

by Lestradesexwife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mary is gone, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pining Sherlock, Post-Series, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2317412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's oral fixation can be seen from space, and it gives Sherlock ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can't predict the future

**Author's Note:**

> Many apologies for just vanishing into thin air. I haven't forgotten about you, but this summer has been madness and so much RL work things.
> 
> As for the story, many thanks are due to Consulting Smartarse and Lapotter for their prodding and beta work.

Everyone knows John Watson is… well, orally fixated. It would take someone even more dense than Anderson to miss the way John licks his lips, the fact that John doesn’t make eye contact so much as stare at the lips of the person he is talking to.

 

Briefly, Sherlock had wondered if there had been some hearing damage, if John’s conversational fascinations were, not merely, but in part an attempt to read lips. John’s wound was never fully explained, perhaps there had been an explosion as well. The idea is quickly discarded, John doesn’t miss words when Sherlock turns his back, understands when Sherlock talks with his mouth covered or full of toast. In the end, it is much preferable to be able to watch John watching him, fascinating to catalogue John’s reactions, because over a long enough timeline John forgets that Sherlock is watching him back and just… watches, reacts and… licks his lips.

 

It is not difficult from there to deduce that John would be an enthusiastic, if not… perhaps practiced, or adept practitioner of felattio. A scenario which features regularly in Sherlock’s masturbation fantasies. Early on Sherlock experienced something that might resemble guilt about John’s appearance in his fantasies; with John’s constant reminders that he’s “not gay.” John’s mouth, his willingness, however fictional and fantastical, the beautiful idea of it wins out over any objections Sherlock’s conscience can raise. Tedious that “not gay” should mean “you’re not allowed to think about me _that_ way.” There are lines, even Sherlock can grasp that… but what happens in the bedrooms of Sherlock’s mind palace stays in the mind palace.

 

But then it isn’t always the bedrooms of the mind palace. John coming in from a night at the pubs, crawling into Sherlock’s bed, cold fingers and warm mouth of course, crime scenes, rooftops, broom cupboards at the Yard, at Bart’s, tucked under his bench in the lab at Baskerville… the single beds in the Cross Keys… anywhere they have ever been together and some places they haven’t… Sherlock’s dorm room at school, keeping quiet so Seb won’t hear.

 

And that’s enough, the line between reality and Sherlock’s imagination is… thin at the best of times, but there is always a fuzzy unreal quality to his fantasies. And just the faintest tingle along his spine of something that might be guilt, because Sherlock’s fantasies are about getting Sherlock off… not about bringing John with him, they fade and end with Sherlock’s orgasm, the vague idea that he would do _something_ to John… but only… and it doesn’t really bear thinking about because it won’t happen. 

 

And then Sherlock is away, and he tries not to think about John too much, because… well because the space beside him is empty, and there is so much to do that poking at the empty space distracts. 

 

Distraction lets him pull the key from his jailor’s pocket, lets him begin to work the lock even as Mycroft gloats. “Back to Baker Street, brother mine.”

 

Home. Mycroft doesn’t do sentiment, even when he does. Sherlock hadn’t realized how much home sounds just exactly like John Watson’s name. 

 

The mistake, the horrible dreadful _error_  that led to John… “moving on.” 

 

But then there is Mary, perfect beautiful Mary. The lies she tells and the mystery of her. She’s just exactly like John, and she _likes_ him.

 

It shouldn’t shock Sherlock as much as it does when she kills him, shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does when Sherlock shows John what she is. The three of them could have been perfect together. 

 

But then she’s gone, and Sherlock has to put John back together again. As much as he… he wants to make things better for John, but it is hard to mourn a woman that murdered you in cold blood. Sherlock almost thinks that he should be grateful to her, giving him a chance to bleed out in John’s arms, giving John a chance to try to save him. She could have just shot him in the head, ended it instantly. And Sherlock doesn’t want to think about what that would have done to John. Both of them selfish in the end…

 

So he does put John back together… but not for her. Sherlock does it because he needs John whole. Or at least broken in the very specific way that he was presented to Sherlock at Bart’s that first day. So Sherlock does his best to mend John, as much as is possible or can be hoped for, and they fall back into something like their old ways.

 

It hangs over Sherlock’s head, the expectation that he will go too far and lose John for good. The worry that John’s drinking will slide over the edge from soothing to dependency, the desperation to find enough cases going to keep John interested, keep him working and _not_ thinking. The idea of finding John another woman makes Sherlock ache, not in his heart, but in the soft spot under his right ribs… 

 

The guilt keeps him from thinking about it. Of course there are times when he can’t help but notice, the flicker of John’s eyes to Sherlock’s lips, the way John shifts in his chair. It creeps into Sherlock’s mind, pushing its way past his defenses and… 

 

John reading the paper one afternoon, long lines of light cutting across the sitting room, Sherlock sitting opposite him, because he can, that’s how they are. John folding the paper calmly, preparing to get up, to make tea, to do whatever it is John does, shopping…

 

Except he doesn’t, he moves, slides, shifts himself closer. The space between their chairs is so small if Sherlock stretches he can rest his feet on John’s lap. He hasn’t, but he could. Such a small space, John doesn’t even have to stand to cross it, just leans forward until he’s not sitting in his chair but kneeling between Sherlock’s knees. And from there... it is only a moment’s work, the brush of fingers over button and zip, a subtle movement on Sherlock’s part, an opening of hips, a spreading of knees. 

 

His cock is already mostly hard by the time John flicks out his tongue out to taste the tip. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his head fall back as John takes him into his mouth. “Oh god, I’ve missed this.” John hums around Sherlock’s cock and sucks him deep into his throat. 

 

Sherlock strokes his hand over the back of John’s head, pushing up gently to meet John’s mouth with his hips. John’s hand rests on Sherlock’s hip, fingers clench gently when Sherlock pushes against the back of John’s throat. The whole thing is very civilized but Sherlock wouldn’t describe it as gentle. There’s an edge to them, together, especially in Sherlock’s mind, a sharpness that brings blood to the surface of the skin, but never really cuts. 

 

Sherlock pulls John back, needs to see the slide of his prick into John’s mouth. And _now_ John is looking at him, watching Sherlock watch John’s mouth as he moves his head against the pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his skull. 

 

“ _John._ ”

 

John closes his eyes and moans, a small low noise that makes Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair. From there it is the soft tight warmth of John’s mouth, the occasional scrape of John’s molars over the shaft of Sherlock’s cock, the way John speeds up when Sherlock’s hips start to buck on their own, and the encouraging noises John makes when Sherlock tries to warn him. 

 

When Sherlock opens his eyes John is back in his chair, never having moved except in Sherlock’s mind. The pattern of light in the room has changed, and John must have gotten up to make himself tea… No, Mrs. Hudson has been and gone, there’s tea beside Sherlock as well, cool but not cold.

 

Sherlock lifts the tea and sips, studying John before he speaks. “Nothing in the paper?”

 

John looks up and licks his lips. “Not a thing.”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] You can't predict the future](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4718789) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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